


The Guilty Party

by dynamicsofanasteroid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Amnesia Moriarty, Gaslighting, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-07 00:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10347639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsofanasteroid/pseuds/dynamicsofanasteroid
Summary: When a criminal mastermind awakens from a coma with amnesia, Mycroft's people scrambles to unlock his inner workings. But it may be a former a soldier who has the key.In the making of a villain, who is the sole perpetrator?





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game restarts

_Whether the city is silent because of the enveloping fog, or if it's due to the emptiness He does not know._

_Emptiness._

_The abandoned buildings are graying, but a steel gray, and the gathering mist sticks at the bottom like clouds of flour. It’s suffocating is what it is. It clots the sky as well, passing overhead like helicopters on a manhunt- searching for something. He is too but for what he doesn’t know either. The lack of understanding should be as maddening as the silence. But it isn’t. He’s oddly content as he roams the streets._

_He rounds the corner and hears hiccuping in the distance. Approaching closer, He finds a child in white rags curled up on himself. A black nest of hair. His legs are tucked up and he’s hiding his tears with his hands._

_He stands perfectly straight as He addresses him._

_“Why are you crying?” His tone is cool, almost patronizing; like an annoyed older brother who’s found his younger sibling after a fit about some nonsense._

_“Because you deleted yourself from everyone’s memory?”_

_The boy is still weeping in earnest on the crosswalk._

_“But isn’t that what you wanted?”_

_The boy shifts. Slowly, he raises his head though his neck is still tucked in._

_His eyes are still brimmed with tears threatening to fall as he finally replies, “But it wasn't supposed to be like this! Why did it have to be like this?”_

_The high voice is filled with anguish as it continues and the reply seems to have the same amount._

_“Because you chose to.”_

~

Silence is such a teasing lover. Here one moment one moment, the next-

The phone rings. It’s his personal office so sounds are permissible but still unwanted. Ever since spring, he’s got loads of work piled on him.

Usually a welcome distraction, especially in this particular topic, but this job is now more of a hindrance. Tedious. Every time he thinks something is finished there’s another loose strand. It’s a lot like politics now that he thinks about it. Just when you think a scandal is over there’s another. It’s why he chose this line of work government-wise.

“What is it this time?” He holds the phone close to his ear as his other hand sifts through the pile of information about a drug cartel who’s _somehow_ got their hands on a nuclear code. 

“The Magpie has crowed.”

The response makes his hands waver. He quickly ends the call and takes a deep breath as he bends to open a side drawer. Ignoring the protests of his back (and growl of his stomach) he skims through the neatly filed manila folders and finds what he’s looking for.

He traces the edges of the medical report before opening it and holding the picture to the light. It’s a ghost with a tube disappearing between pale, chapped lips. Dark, long lashes fan out along the slightly hollowed ivory cheeks.

A nest of black hair.

The game starts as a player awakens.


	2. Chapter One

     "So it's true then."

      The light obstructs her face but her alarming red lips pop out from his blurry vision.

      She's strangely sad as she lightly caresses his jaw with pointed nails. He thinks he backs away from the touch but he's not sure. He's also not certain about the slight smile she gives him as he responds to the gesture.

     "Oh Jim," the woman says. She moves her hand to his face as the black threatens to overtake him.

    "What have you done?"  
~

     There's something about the smell of hospitals that puts a feeling of unease in one's stomach. It could be the overly clean feeling, the scent of bleach staining every surface, clogging the nose. It makes you feel dirty. Like you don't belong.

     That's the second thing he notices: the overwhelming sense that something is wrong, coupled with disappointment that's equally as strong. The out-of-context emotions coupled with the deep ache in his bones makes for a rather rude awakening.

     He shifts, taking out the IV line that pricks his arm in protest as he sits up. As awareness filters his mind and the phantom scent of cherry medicine lingers, his brain gives him another message: Get out. While you still can.

     His eyes snap to focus immediately, sending in all the information he can find. He's practically breathing in observations; loose nightgown, open door, fading footsteps, askew visitor's chair, knotted phone chords. Someone's coming to get him.

     Despite the urgency, he tentatively lowers a bare foot onto the blue tiles. The linoleum floor is sharply ice compared to the heat of the hospital bed. He grips the metal side bar as he steadies himself before making his way out.

     The IV and sensors detaching would signal nurses, giving him a few minutes- now down to thirty seconds- which means the top priority is to get out of sight. Evade. Something tells him it's a specialty of his.

     But that's not important right now. Focus! _The elevator's too risky so side stairwell it is. Thank god this one is an exit._

      As he makes his way to the door, he glimpses another open room. The laundromat. A lady with scrubs and a hairnet tends the wet clothes in the washing machine letting him easily grab the trousers, shoes, and dress shirt folded on the metal rack. He dresses quickly (admittedly a bit giddy) behind the unsuspecting staff member and leaves the blue gown in its place.

     As he pushes open the door, his deductions keep coming. The dry, warm air means early June and the parking lot and people milling about mean the first floor. The first floor. Signs of a visitor that left. He pauses in his step as he considers there might be someone waiting for him.

     Someone that actually wants him. Apparently that someone comes whether he wants them to or not. A sleek black SUV stops him from crossing the street. The door opens and a smartly dressed woman steps out. She tells him to get inside without even looking up from her Blackberry. With nothing to lose, he does.

~

     The ride is blissfully silent and he knows it should raise a red flag, which it does, but he needs time to process the sterile emptiness of his mind. His brain unhelpfully supplies the word 'amnesia,' but it seems more calculated than the results of a concussion. Though he's sure he's survived a traumatic injury.

    The professional air of the brunette next to him makes him resist the urge to lean his body on the side door of the car. He settles on turning his gaze out the window though not really looking at the view.

    No name, no memory. Yet important. Is he more important in this state? Was this done on purpose? Had he consented?

    When they arrived, men in slippers led him to showers where they hosed him down. The harsh burst of water seemed to come from everywhere and combined with the close proximity of anonymous faces touching everywhere and in such a detached way... Everything was overwhelming. But he seemed to keep his cool well enough, slipping into a second skin he didn't know he possessed.

    Thankfully they left him alone in boxers to dress himself. He eyed the new set of clothes on the table, running his fingers across the silky fabric of the light blue collared shirt. A piece of fabric stuck out from the breast pocket of the slightly darker blazer. Curious, he took it out only to be met with a handkerchief. He chuckled quietly.

    _It seems I'm a person of influence. Or maybe the one I'm meeting is._

   It was both. As he entered the room, several men in ( _probably more expensive_ ) suits, swishing strong alcohol, and even stiffer backs halted their chatter and straightened or stood up- all eyes fixed on him. If it weren't for the uneasy way they stared, he'd think they were all starstruck. As if he was some sort of rock star.

    The marble and granite room was filled with men in suits- government buzzards and political vultures- but only one was sitting down, calmly sipping what seemed to be tea, despite the amount of empty and undisturbed chairs. As he entered, the man glanced up from the tea cup, sparing him a look, before dismissing the man talking to him which apparently everyone else took as a signal to hurriedly leave the room.

    The man put the cup back in its saucer and he waited for him to say something. However, he just kept eye contact with the confused young man. When the silence stretched, the amnesiac decided to make the first move. He jokingly lifted both his arms up before carelessly dropping them at his sides in an exaggerated shrug.

    "Is this the principal's office?" He tucked his fingers in the pockets of the dress pants, thumbs poking out. He sauntered over to the calm man, still making sure to hold his gaze, if not challenging it.

    "Did I get detention?"

     The other remained the same as if he didn't even utter a word, though keen observation showed the man was deeply calculating his first impression to his guest. His arrival at the end of the long table was greeted by more staring, hands folded in a steeple position. He was less like the principal and more like the dad after the principal's office.

      Finally, the balding man hummed before starting, "I'm sure you've figured out your current and previous condition. Both through simple deductive reasoning and the fact you've nabbed your medical chart as well." He nodded, wanting the man to just tell him something of use already.

     The seated man raised an eyebrow at his probably rude urgency and dropped what was supposed to be a plot twist of a statement: "I'm not going to tell you who you are. Or even place you back into your old life." The man stands up with a rather subdued smug expression and walked over to one of the ground-to-mid-wall glass windows lining the right wall.

     The younger man internally scoffed. As if he expected anything different. Not that it wasn't cold in the slightest. All the signs pointed that the man in front of him was his future employer, though the matter of cooperating was a different matter. He had a gut instinct this very moment to fight this stranger and whoever he worked for that seemed to be ingrained from habit.

     He acted the part, pretending to consider (though nonchalantly) as he rocked on his heels before he let his smirk grow on his face and a glimmer shine in his black eyes. Shifting his hips and sharply cocking his face up, he gave his answer.

     "When do we start?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's still slow. It's only the first chapter.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting the doctor

     They left him on a quiet street tucked away in a busy city with a vibrant nightlife with the rustling of leaves blowing by for company. His left hand gripped a brass key that would leave behind that god awful metallic scent. The fingers of his right curled around the handle of a wheelie luggage case which held clothes, quite a lot of money, a hairbrush, hair product, and a mobile. No doubt they were tracking that thing. It was best to get a second, more private, mobile.

      He tossed the key, caught it, before trying out on the door in front of him. It wouldn't fit at first and he was beginning to feel like a drunkard for being unable to simply unlock his flat. His empty stomach, supplied with a couple of scones from the man's- Mycroft's- office, growled in irritation as well, picking up the aroma coming from the bakery next door.

     After a ridiculous amount of time, the door was open. Stairs awaited him and his rolly bag.

~

     The actual flat had furniture moved in, courtesy of Mycroft he supposed- though the musky aura of age permeated the cramped living space. Some light from the street lamps outside streamed through the two windows but other than that it was dark. He debated whether or not to make the several extra steps to the bedroom or take shelter in that leather black couch. Deciding to not overthink it, he placed the suitcase to the side and out of the way before he dove clear across the table and landed roughly on the piece of furniture that was just a bit more cushiony than the table he passed. Still a makeshift bed was a bed and he let himself succumb to sleep, lulled by a small sense of security.

      Like nice things in life, it didn't last long. The black dots dancing in his vision had chased away most of the nightmare but a few sensory details loitered around his groggy waking state. Nausea still churning in his stomach; the ringing in his ears crescendoed; soreness encircling his head like a wreath.

      Not knowing what else to do, he stiffly sat on the edge of the couch, wrestling his lungs back in place before laying back down. However, a couple of minutes of tossing and turning made him realize the bedroom with the proper bed had been the wiser choice. He staggered to his feet, fighting off fatigue just long enough to reach the bedroom and collapse on the open space on the left side of the queen-sized mattress.

~

     There's nothing like the feeling you get when you first stir from a restful slumber, enveloped in blankets. The sun coming in from the open door added to warmth & he smiled to himself, rolling over in bed, forehead brushing another's.

     Another's.

     Mentally bracing himself, he opened an eye. The man was sleeping soundly- as in softly groaning and even murmuring occasionally. Though the light only managed to touch the soles of his untied sneakers, the man was in full frontal view. The brown hair was mostly a silver sheen, ruffled. Thick eyebrows were subtly scrunched up and his shoulders were stiff as well. Despite this, there was a gentleness about him, written in the characteristic bags and protruding nose.

    The aforementioned nose twitched as his face- only centimeters away- rippled. He gave a groan, part of a word escaping his lips.

     "Sher..." A whisper and a quiver of his eyelids and that was it. Profound yet earnest blues eyed him, a thousand words held back in a glossy stare.

    The dark haired man blinked back.

    "Sleep well?"

    He was pinned to the carpet suddenly as if there was a break in reality. Hands steeled themselves on either side of him, those blues not piercing, willing itself to kill with just a look. Though taken aback, he felt the hidden persona take the wheel once more as an easy grin slipped on his face.

    "Is this my wake-up call?"

Their eyes were in a deadlock and he could feel unsaid lines he was supposed to say but didn't know curl around them.

    "Yoohoo!" A voice called out from the living room. Both of their heads snapped up in the direction of the source. A wrinkly old crone in an outlandish shade of magenta grew in shape before making her way to the bedroom door.

    "Oh!" She cried, strangely delighted, "You must be the new guest! Come along now John. Where are your manners? Unhand him this instant."

     The man on top of him slowly looked down at him, scanning his face down to his torso, before getting up a knee at a time. He gave a huff once standing, grabbing his right shoulder.

     The landlady, he concluded, tutted and pushed him towards the kitchen.

     "I'll get a heat pack for that bad shoulder. I'll fix you two a cuppa as well."

     The voice, still husky from newly awakening, distantly replied, "Some eggs too if you please."

     "Only since we have a new tenant. I'm not your housekeeper," she shouted from the doorway. He hissed, head slightly spinning.

     She glanced back at him as John shot back venomously, "He's not staying. I won't have him here. Anyone but him." A thunderous slam rang out across the compact apartment. John had retreated into the bathroom.

     "Aw, you poor thing." The significantly shorter elder brushed a hand across his left arm as he gave her a dazed expression.

     "You're just like him. I know you'll be."

~

     "So what are you going as these days?"

     The criminal in front of him continued to look down at the porcelain cup, moving the spoon in slow, deliberate circles. John grits his teeth and looks down at his toast.

     "Well, aren't you gonna answer her?" he says, seething with annoyance. Lost black eyes snapped up to meet him before tearing away to face Ms. Hudson in bewilderment.

     "Sorry?"

     Ms. Hudson turned her attention to the intruder, still flipping the pancakes. She was about to reply when he interjected.

     "She's asking for your name. You have one, don't you." He could sense the disapproving expression directed at the back of his head. Putting down the knife and fork and setting aside the Eggs Benedict and toast, he folded his arms on the table and straightened his back, painting a plastic easy look on his face.

     "It's what you do with a new housemate. Introduce each other, straighten out your things," he said lightly. Those still eyes were staring intently at him, calculating or studying or both.

     John coughed, unable to hold the gaze and look down at the bread again. _Handcuffed hands holding on to each other as they fled from the police._ He still kept his tone (somewhat) positive as he continued, mumbling, "Maybe go on adventures with them."

_Having a laugh on a couch at Buckingham Palace; leaning against the wallpaper, out of breath; bloody curls as dirty fingers clutched a harpoon; body parts mixed in with food condiments; watching crap telly on the couch._

    John squeezed his eyes shut against the rush of imagery. A warm hand soothes his wounded shoulder- the man before him flicking his eyes to the spot- before another one joins it and starts to massage.

   "Alright now. There's no need to be fussy."

   "Adventures? Is that right?" the criminal finally replied, "Well, I do get cabin fever easily so I'd like to do something worthwhile and stimulating to occupy my time."

   Ms. Hudson turned her attention back to him. "Oh, you'll love reading them. John's got them typed up if you-" John's head whirled with all the scenarios that could happen if James Moriarty, currently an amnesiac, discovered the old cases which mostly involved him. That happened _because of him_. Could they bring back his memory?

   "No, no, that won't be necessary Ms. Hudson. He doesn't seem to be the reading type-" Moriarty raised an eyebrow "- and besides, they're old stories anyway. Boring. How about, uh..." He spied the knife stabbed onto the mantelpiece, one of the only things Mycroft had kept in place. He couldn't describe the ripping in his chest as his heart sank when, after waking up _in bed_ with _James Moriarty_ , he discovered a tidy flat and an impeccable kitchen. Mycroft had also replaced his brother's chair.

   He shot up, startling the older woman but the criminal and murderer simply leaned back from his leaning position. "The envelopes! Yes! New, fresh cases." Frenzied, he hobbled over to the living room, followed by the two.

   "Cases? you're a-"

   "No, my, the other, uh, previous flatmate was a detective."

   Both perfectly trimmed brows rose in subdued astonishment. "And you followed him around? And here I thought you were a, ah, robust ex-soldier. Not dignified, per se but it's quite the picture; you running around London with-"

   "He was a consulting detective. Only one in the world." _I invented the job._

   The loosely dressed man, a bit strange of a sight from his normally formal outfits, brushed his fingers against the books, tracing the spine of The Picture of Dorian Grey before picking up a folder.

   "Consulting detective? How fantastical a title," he said absentmindedly, opening the book- a handwritten composition- and jested, "What, did he have an archenemy or something? His very own "consulting criminal" to play with?"

    John's fists clenched at his sides. Thankfully, the consulting criminal had his back to him or else the whole cover was blown. The man hummed a tune as his eyes scanned the page, sad and melancholic. The Woman's theme.

    John lurched forward as he blurted, "Would you like me to solve yours?" Moriarty looked up from the binder. "Who you were before?"

   "Why wouldn't I?" The response was oddly careful.

    John gave a single stiff nod before marching across the room and grabbing one of the wooden chairs and placing it between the two cushioned ones. Just as it always had been.

    "Then you're a client. You sit in the chair, tell us your name, and we decide whether we want you or not."

     The room was silent and he remembers Ms. Hudson is there as well. Her face spells out melancholy for his loss and he can't look at it right now.

     The younger man pulls a blank face, though soft, in quiet contemplation. He soundlessly makes his way to the front of the chair, looking at it and John, before promptly falling back into the cushioned red chair. _His_ chair, or the replacement anyway. Chin angled upward in a challenge, big brown eyes playful, head tilted slightly to one side in curiosity.

    "Fine." Brushing invisible crumbs off his trousers, John sits down in the wooden chair instead.

    "First thing's first, I do need a name."

    Moriarty coughed, righting himself into a more appropriate position.

   "Hayden Grey." John's eyes flick over to the bookshelf while the consultant holds a steady gaze.

   "Really?" John leans back into the rickety wood, crossing his arms and legs. "I pegged you as more of a Dorian."  _You're not the only one with observation skills,_ he thought as he remembered trench coats flapping about as it rushes around a corpse.

   The younger man traced a pink tongue over pink lips, a gleam in his eyes that John knew meant he had lost this argument before the man opened his mouth.

   Copying John's posture, he smoothly replied, "Well, I suppose you'd know better than I do. Considering my-" He made a motion near his head- "Current condition. You could always check the name on the contract for my living arrangement. Well, it's for me but I'm not the one that suggested I live here."

   His eyes shot a message that was mutually agreed: One of them was not staying.

   "Right." John stood up, half a mind to shake hands with the man as if was a business proposal. He suppressed a shiver. _Here's to hoping it never comes to that. "_ I guess I've got a phone call to make."

   John was halfway to the bedroom when Ms. Hudson called out,"Isn't your bedroom upstairs?"

   His step stuttered on his bad leg and he put a hand on the wall. "I had a late one last night. Didn't want to climb an extra flight of stairs," he hurriedly answered, praying Moriarty didn't connect the dots too soon.

  He ducks into the room, pressing speed dial, and tapping his foot as the call connects. Before the other can speak, he says, "I'm leaving."

~

   He is left alone with the landlady who just radiates sympathy.

   It shifts to him as she says,"He's been this way since spring. It's... Not personal. He's just had a rough couple months."

   She is practically out the door and down the stairs as she offers, "I'll just be downstairs; if you boys need anything, just holler. Don't be afraid to make yourself at home!"

   Home. He gives the flat another once over, kicking his feet that are dangling over the armchair, mindlessly chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

   His eyes trace the borders of the window, eyeing the ghastly wallpaper tastefully, jumping from knick knack to knick knack, pausing to genuinely smile at the bull skull with retro headphones on. The apartment clearly had a story behind it; he thought back to the stench of bleach and cleaning products masking the faint smell of arsenic in the kitchen and dining space. What secrets did this horrendously designed interior hold? Obviously, his own life was hidden from him but now he knows it's connected to the limping man in a jumper. Being pinned to the floor so swiftly had kick started his brain from the grogginess and his senses had been on alert. He had seen the flood of emotions shut closed by a clear glass wall of blue; though restrained, the emotions were transparently easy to read. It wasn't possible to feel that much for a complete stranger unless if he wasn't one.

   The old lady wasn't free from blame either. She might've known him too, if only as an acquaintance. Unless she was incredibly good at lying. He mused on the thought of the frail elderly woman as 'M' from James Bond.  _She seems more motherly. Imagine insisting 007 take his coat with him on a mission in front of Q and the others. Worse yet, missing calls from the woman!_ Either way, the landlady seemed to know more than she let on- and definitely more willing to disclose info than John.

   The surge of pain on one side of his head made up his mind for him. It was getting hard to theorize without any real leads. He massaged his temples, settling back into the chair. He wondered if John had made his concussion flare up. Good thing he was a doctor. About that shoulder... He'd seen the man exhibit signs of a wounded shoulder. Had the man gone into the profession because of the injury? 

    A loud gurgle came from his stomach. He needed answers. And food. Also a better name to call himself- he didn't think he was a Hayden.

    He found Ms. Hudson humming Metallica in the downstairs kitchen as she stirred away at a pot of something or another. She smiled up at his entrance and he quietly sat down at one of the chairs surrounding the round table, just observing her for a moment while his thoughts raced.

    "Mrs. Hudson?"

   "Please dear, it's 'Ms.' I haven't been a 'Mrs.' in a long time." She gave a wistful looking, probably noticing that he'd spotted the rusting ring on her finger.

    She stops stirring and looks at him, putting down the wooden spoon on the counter. "I know you've got a lot of questions and I hope I can help soothe you. I can't imagine how hard it must've been waking up with no memories and being plopped into a new life with no say. Now, what was it you wanted to say?" 

    His mind finally settles on a question. "Tell me about John Watson."

~

    "Mycroft you didn't even tell me he was arriving today!"

    "I told you to prepare-"

    "You gave me a month to prepare! And even that's too small of a time frame. And not to prepare to be roommates with a psychopath!"

    The contrast between his yelling into the phone and Mycroft's condescending, calm composure only further irritates him.

   "We did have accommodations for him John and you  _know_ that-"

    John huffed a sigh, exasperated and finished beyond words, turning his head to the ceiling.

   "You were the one that wanted him out of that place-"

   "Yes!" He shouted like a madman, not caring whether or not the person they're discussing is currently downstairs. "You know why! I couldn't-" He closes his eyes as he remembers what they did to the young man; if he had any memories to begin with, it had long been beaten out of him. Yet the delirious laugh still echoing in John's ears meant there was still a fight in him. He'd only want to salvage what was left. It wasn't right, somehow.

  "John. He's a criminal. A murderer." John nods because he  _knows_ \- knows that Mycroft knows too. He can tell from the slight change of pitch in the Holmes' voice.

  "Don't you ever forget it."

~

   Her lying ability is so ridiculous He almost laughs out loud. All thoughts of any potential secret MI6 training is out the window. The landlady talks about the details one would talk about in an ordinary conversation; things like how he tends to go out late in the evenings or has very bad taste in food. It's so clever how she accurately dodges what He wants if it isn't so blatantly obvious to Him.

   This isn't a normal conversation of course, just like He isn't an ordinary patient. Between the strange reactions from his new flatmate, recognition in both of their eyes, and the unusual circumstances and contract that landed Him at 221B in the first place, He knows deep in his bones that somehow-

   A thump comes from the ceiling above them, jolting Him from his thoughts and her from her nonsensical rambling. 

   "Why don't you go ask John if he wants some soup as well?" She says, sliding a bowl over to him. 

   "Oh no thanks, Ms. Hudson. I'm still a bit full from breakfast, which, thank you for, by the way. " He stands up, pushing the chair back in.

   "I'll ask John if he wants any, though."

   She gives an answer but He's already thinking about the conversation upstairs. Wondering; curious; wanting to confirm his suspicions.

   He tentatively ascends the wooden staircase, stilling as a foot lands to heavily on a particularly creaky one. The distant shouting continues uninterrupted so he makes his way upstairs.

~

   "Of course we're not leaving you out in the cold, Dr. Watson." John had never experienced such a wide range of emotions in a telephone conversation, even with S- his former roommate. Even about him. No, the lurid panic, morally induced identity crisis, and frustrated helplessness was due to the man downstairs- someone probably not even worthy of the amount of thought put into his stay. Or rather, John's leave.

  "Yes because you have  _always_ been ready to help at a moment's notice when someone you care about needs you." The sigh on the other end does it for him, as the image of a somber member of The British Government sits across him, hands clasped, about to tell him how he brought about the-

   An straying arm knocks over a coat rack and heavy weight of it seems to make it fall in slow motion, as if John could catch it if he really tried, but he doesn't and it hits the floor with the loud thud, the carpet absorbing the impact. Red, the carpet was red.  _Falling-_

   "I will send needed supplies when they are needed. I will of course supplement you with money but just enough for what you need to sustain yourselves. Don't indulge. I'd prefer if you don't turn to employment as a means for money in order to avoid attention drawn-" At least there was good news. John breathes in relief because money had been the last thing on his mind since this whole thing started.

  "Remember John. This is only temporary. We will find a more suitable accommodation for him that's suited to your... requirements." Mycroft's tone in the second sentence did not match the one John had expected in his head. It was not a reassurance but a... reprimand? The way you would remind your brother that he can watch the telly for _only_  five minutes and then straight to homework.

  "Yes, I know it's temporary. What? You think I'm lonely enough to turn to _James_ Moriarty of all people for- for- companionship?" There's only half a second of a beat before there's an intake of breath for a reply but for Mycroft it's already too much time.

  "How  _dare_ you." He's suddenly very cold. He feels like steel and it's been a while since he's felt this certain of a thought, felt control over himself again and he feels empowered.

   "You said it yourself. Mycroft." His voice is steady and he lifts his palm up to look at it. Barely a twitch.

   "There's no way on Earth anyone could love someone as sick as twisted as James Moriarty. How could anyone love a  _monster_?"

    There's a dull thud once again as an object falls but it comes with a clinking sound. It comes from behind him, past the bedroom door that's  _ajar_. It comes, along with a gasp, from an alarmingly paling man with consuming black eyes with the most anguished look on his face.

    "James.." In a blink, he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably gonna do a complete overhaul editing wise later this week


End file.
